


One Shot, One Kill

by writtenFIRES



Series: Royal Flush [5]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: 1923, Alcohol, Attempted Murder, Character Death, False Identity, Guns, Mobsters, Murder, Prohibition, Racial slurs, Racism, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-26 17:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenFIRES/pseuds/writtenFIRES
Summary: "There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and for those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter." -Ernest Hemmingway





	1. Remember the Name

**Author's Note:**

> This story focuses around the unnamed sniper killed by Jack McLoughlin in Chapter 14 of Against All Odds. It provides some information, hopefully fills in some gaps, and likely opens up an entirely new mindfuck of a plot device for you all to enjoy! Hooray!
> 
> (Also please note any slurs or derogatory statements used in this work are purely the results of characterization, and are not felt or believed by me, the author.)

_Kyle Myers._

That name was dead to me. Had been for years now. After the war, after doing so many things I tried not to regret, I couldn’t stand carrying that name on my shoulders.

There was a man I’d fought closely with in those trenches. Went by the name of Dmitri. Swore up and down he was a Russian native, but I knew the Georgian twang in his accent.

Poor guy took a bullet through the jaw. Never really came back from that.

He had a nice name though. Decided to take it up as my own, toss something suitably Russian at the end of it for good measure.

_Dmitri Potapoff._

That sounded legitimate enough, right? Everyone else seemed to buy it, once I really got a grasp on the accent.

I returned to the States a new man without a mission. I wandered, listless, aimless along the Eastern coast. Found myself on the streets of Boston, and that’s where I learned about _him._

_Charles “King” Mir._

The nickname spoke for itself. Leader of the resident Russian mafia, their _pakhan,_ he had the city of Boston under his thumb. Bootlegging, narcotics, illegal gambling- you name it, he owned it. No one could touch the guy, not even the Italians.

Getting recruited as a _shestyorka_ was pretty damn easy. They didn’t really seem to buy the accent, but they were probably used to getting American-born Russians in their gang. And once they saw my skill with a gun, I suppose my origins didn’t matter as much. They took me on, and I had a purpose again.

_I had a mission._

In 1922, some schmuck in a suit changed all that. In 1922, the King was tried for dope dealing. He got acquitted, the clever bastard, but that sleazy judge still managed to put him away. For intimidating a witness. Maybe the weasel should have been less of a coward.

_Associate Justice Thomas Fischbach._

The man who put a stall on the King’s uncontested reign; who caused a hiatus in the Russian mafia’s success streak. _Five years._ The King was set to be out of commission for five years, and it was impossible to say if the Russians would recover.

It had only been about a year and they were already suffering.

Business ventures undercut, territory stolen away, power and fear ripped from our grasp like it was theirs for the taking. The Italians and the Irish and those god forsaken skirts. People in masks took our place as the boogeymen of Boston and we became a shell of our great former selves; a laughingstock. Walk down the street and no one would so much as bat an eye at you.

But let no one say the _pakhan_ was a pushover, or a man content to sit on his hands and wait. He rose to the top for a reason, and even behind bars he was hard at work. Planning, sending messages, convening with his _Sovietnik_ and _Obshchak._ He practically ran that prison from the inside out. Never lost his connections to those in government seats. His body had left the core of our mafia, but his presence remained strong and steadfast like a guiding light.

And that light was pointed resolutely at the man who dared to cross him; cross _us._ The man who put King behind bars and ruined everything. The man who was set to die.

It was 1923, and there was to be a commemoration ceremony for war veterans. Some weak ploy by the seats of office to raise morale and awareness after the whole Prohibition mess went into play, masquerading as a tribute event to soldiers fallen and still kicking alike.

Never did get my invitation. Had to wonder if they’d list _Kyle Myers_ during their salute to the fallen. Or were they still counting me as MIA? I hadn’t bothered to check in years.

Of course, I’d still be attending.

_“Go to Boston Common. Find a comfortable spot. And then shoot that filthy gook.”_

There’d be one more “deceased” veteran added to that list today.


	2. Remember the Place

_This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine._

I adjusted the strap of my duffel as I scaled the stairs of some department store. It had taken me ages to figure out the best method to conceal my rifle, including a brief stint with an instrument case. Too conspicuous. This bag seemed to work just fine though, only getting me a few questioning looks. A quick glare or simple cold shoulder was always enough to deter any actual questions.

_My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life._

A _Gewehr 98._ Designed by the German Paul Mauser in 1895. This was a gun made for war. This was a gun, a bolt-action rifle, designed expressly to kill people. To kill your enemy. In 1917 they found a way to redesign it. Gave it a telescopic sight, adjusted the bolt to accommodate it. They turned a weapon for war into something more deadly. Something more personal.

It was my gun, and I cherished it like the wife or child I never had.

_My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will…._

I opened the door that led out to the roof, barring it behind me with a cane I’d brought up days ago. I’d scoped out the area several times before the big event, and it had one of the best hidden views of the Common. I’d already chosen a spot to set up near its edge and I went about preparing my equipment for the main event. It would be hours before a crowd even showed, but that was fine. It gave me time to mentally fortify.

_My rifle and I know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit…._

Late in the afternoon, it began. People swarmed the Common, separating into spectators and veterans. Officials sat like ducks in a row on the stage, and there were bulls spotted everywhere. But none on the roofs. Honestly, how naive could the government be? In the city of Boston, every precaution should be taken.

Failing to do so meant people got hurt. It meant people died.

A man was going to die today.

_My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will…._

I watched the proceedings with a numbed sense of boredom, tinged with a rising anticipation. I could have shot Thomas Fischbach from the very beginning. I could have shot him the moment he came up to the podium to speak. He could be dead right now, creating a permanent red stain on hardwood.

_“Make it good. Make it count. I want him to be made an example of. This is no ordinary kill, sin. It will be a message to the good people of Boston: we are here, we see everything, no one and nowhere is safe. Do not fail me, zayka.”_

King had insisted on making my shot count. I wasn’t about to disappoint him. Not when I’d been given such an important task. Not when the straggling remnants of the Russian mafia were counting on me. This would be my _Vor._ This would cement my place among them, as a non-native, and set me for life.

All I had to do was shoot one man.

_Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life._

Thomas Fischbach was center stage, now. Commending the veterans, promoting Prohibition, and of course preaching how “good” and “justice” would prevail over Boston’s criminal underbelly. The self-righteousness of it all disgusted me. I had no qualms about putting a bullet through this arrogant man’s skull. I would be counted as a hero. I would be the avenger of King’s honor. No one would be able to touch me.

No one could _touch me._

I shifted, lining up the perfect shot. I drew a deep breath, and let let it out from my lungs. They were empty while I counted the beats of my heart. One, two. One, two. One, two. _One-_

**_Bang._ **

_-one… one… one…?_

Something was supposed to come after the one, but only silence reigned in my ears. Silence, and the rush of wind, and the faint sound of screams.

But I could have been imagining that last one. The cries of my horrified mother; my anguished father. When was the last time I had seen them?

I wouldn’t see them.

I wouldn’t see anyone.

Someone had shot first. The bang, the bullet, they were not my own.

_So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace!_

I was gone.


	3. Remember the Words

**This is my rifle. There are many like it, and they are all mine.**

_In a prison near Boston, Charles “King” Mir scratched idly at his jaw. Casually, he brought the half-smoked cigar to his lips, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of high quality tobacco. He held it a moment, then let it billow out like some great dragon. Before him stood his “two spies”, the Sovietnik and Obshchak. The heads of his support and security, the two men he trusted the most._

_“Mr. Fischbach is going to be heading a commemorative ceremony with that soul-sucking Carpett soon. Something to celebrate the war veterans, how quaint.”_

**My rifle is my tool. It preserves my life. I will master it as I have mastered my life.**

_He took another drag from his cigar, letting his free hand drop to cradle a half-full glass of vodka. The finest, imported straight from home and slipped into his cell. Not that he was scared of being caught. No one in that prison could touch him._

_“It would be a prime opportunity for some revenge, wouldn’t you say so? In Boston’s main common, in front of a happy crowd. All those old war heroes and his fellow officials…. What a sight it would be, for a bullet to find itself between those slanted eyes.”_

**My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am still strong. I will fire my rifle true. I will shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I will shoot him before he shoots me. I will….**

_Charles chuckled at his own dark humor, flicking some ashes from his cigar. He leaned back in his chair with a content sigh, bringing his glass of vodka with him. Almost boredly, he took a sip._

_“Who would you have us send, pakhan? A brigadier? A bratok?”_

**My rifle and I know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit….**

_Charles merely shook his head, waving the hand holding the cigar as if to dismiss such suggestions. “No, no. The common will be swarming with bulls. It’s too risky to endanger one of our finer men. Not with the bratva so weak. We will send someone accomplished, but expendable. A shestyroka- they are always looking to gain Vor, no?” He flicked away some more ashes, then brought the cigar to his lips, holding it there with mouth alone while he spoke around the obstruction. “Do we have any snipers at that level?”_

_The two men shared a glance._

**My rifle is human, even as I, but I own its life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will….**

_“There is Potapoff. That odd American posing as one of our own. He’s only been with us a few years and his loyalty is still questionable. However, his proficiency with a rifle was showcased beyond satisfactory. He hasn’t failed to make a hit since he joined.”_

_“Hmph.” Charles puffed a bit of smoke from around the cigar in his mouth, cradling his glass between his hands where they rested easily on his stomach. “Spasibo. Bring him to me, and I shall deliver him the good news. He is to become one of us! If he succeeds.”_

**Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my gains. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.**

_“And if he is caught? Or killed?”_

_“Well, my dear Sovietnik, this is why he is expendable.”_

**So be it, until victory is mine and there is no enemy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you couldn't tell, this was a bonus, basically. This was what happened _before_ Kyle/Dmitri went off to kill Tom. And the results, well...


End file.
